It began with this.
Falstaff's story here. Black Mamba's here. Anjoy (and contribute!)
“Don’t open it until I’ve left. Promise?”
She looks at me strangely but she promises.
She’ll open the letter tonight. I haven’t known her for long but I know her well enough.
When I see her again, I’ll know if she’s read the letter. I wonder how long it will take for her to figure it out? Wish I could see her face as she’s reading it.
As she reads one line and goes on to the next, finding that it makes no sense; that it doesn’t follow. Will she read it twice, three times? Will she shake the single sheet of paper in frustration? When will it occur to her to read a line and flip the page over to continue reading? And then again and again, until the page turns and turns in her hands.
I was never going to see her face as she read the letter. But tomorrow when we meet, she will grin – I’m sure of it – and very likely cuff me with that ridiculous pink and white bag she carries everywhere. I will look injured and ask why I’m being physically abused in this manner, and she will say, just.
That’s one letter you’re not going to tear up, lady.